I wrote this, probably somewhere in
the ballpark of the mid-to-late 90s for the Unbearables' compilation,
THE WORST BOOK I EVER READ, and forgot about it sometime thereafter.
The book, amazingly enough, popped up in 2009, long after I'd
forgotten about it, but better late than never, and as I've said
before, I always love being involved in anything the Unbearables do.
The book is a fun and brain-crunching pile of deconstruction and my
part of it is pretty much a puff piece by comparison. Check it
out---it'll definitely give you a new way of looking at literature.
At the time I wrote this
little pro-pulp/anti-Koontz jam I had read two or three of his books
(I'm thinking one was called STRANGERS and one was called WHISPERS
but I might be wrong on those titles)...'round about the early-to-mid
2000s (?) I went through this weird spate of listening to books on
tape and among the books I “read” this way were the first two Odd
Thomas novels. I decided that everything I disliked about Koontz as a
writer back in the early days....I still disliked. So the Goof
stands. Mr. Koontz probably wouldn't appreciate it, but what the
hell? He can go cry on his bed of money. Wiseass attitude intact,
here it is...
Not long ago, a friend and I were
talking about books. He lamented the passing of the Era of the Hack.
Those were the good old, bad old
days. They're gone----they were on their way out the door when I was
a kid, in fact. You can still find their cobwebbed revenant in flea
markets and used bookstores---even there, you'll see them slowly
usurped by a fancier, slicker, more surefooted brand of garbage.
The best authors of my
generation, and I can think of at least four I know personally, are
probably doomed to die unpublished and unread. It's a painful reality
to look at.
A few of these aforementioned
writers were weaned on cheap, dime store trash literature. It shows
in their writing---they deliver texts of gut-level simplicity, which,
like the best works of the old hacks, betray sly and subtle depths.
There is much to be gleaned from lowly bargain bin scribes.
Hack Writing---Christ Jesus. Gone
are the days when a browser might score a cheap edition of Howard's
Conan novels or a thirty-five cent Signet edition of an Ian
Fleming James Bond thriller in all its violent, misogynistic glory.
Gone are Edgar Rice Burroughs and Doc Savage the Man of Bronze. Gone
is Zorro, fighting for freedom in a California that never existed.
Gone is the day when a Jim Thompson could ply his sublime and bloody
trade.
Gone, also, are the
surprises---where H.P. Lovecraft could churn out such artful and
mythic horror pulp that a generation of mystical dabblers would
actually mistake it for occult fact; Where a Chester Himes could
infuse raw, gritty detective stories with canyons of racial tension
and urban rage. You'd be hard-pressed to find another Philip K. Dick,
whose readable science fiction opened up into allegory, subversion
and a new form of Gnosticism.
The writing hasn't necessarily
elevated---in many cases it's regressed. But the prices of the books
have gone sky high and the cover art is spellbinding in its
obviousness. It's all about the package.
Dean Koontz is nobody's candidate
for genius. His ham-fisted technique is pounded into a succession of
thrillers that are perennial best sellers. He's not one to be stymied
by hobgoblins like craftsmanship or finesse.
Big deal, anyway; He's laughing
all the way to the bank.
The infotainment complex does not
hedge bets on long shots or X-factors. Dean Koontz is the epitome of
a safe bet. In the pantheon of modern horror he lacks the sense of
history that a Peter Straub or a Ramsey Campbell might possess. He
lacks the basic human decency of the Splatterpunk Crowd. He's even
devoid of the sense of dramatic irony you might find reading some of
Stephen King's better stuff. Not that it matters, of course—Koontz
wouldn't know craft if he fell over it, but he does quite well
without it.
My writerly mentors in college
were all Hemingway Groupies. Whether you give a rat's puckered ass
about Hemingway or not—whether you, as a writer (if you ARE a
writer) choose to follow his lead, I reckon the Hemingway Model is a
sound one. Scale it back to the bone. Take the terse, minimalist,
journalistic road. Show, don't tell. I don't write like Hemingway,
but I still think his style provides a useful foundation. Now and
again I like to revisit the terrain, just as an experiment, just to
make sure I'm still capable.
Koontz is no technician. If
you're handing out marks using Hemingway as a guide, he's still in
grade school. He's given to heavy-handed summarization, even in the
realm of character development. When the time comes to show, not
tell, just watch Koontz in action---he tells and tells and tells.
Like it matters. His books are
fertile ground for bad movie adaptations and the cash register keeps
on ringing.
Art, a truly useless term, is
also a dead thing in the world of infotainment, and can easily be
excised neatly from the product.
Is Koontz the bastard buttchild
of Alistair MacLean and Jim Thompson? Does he carry the banner of the
new pulp? Well...no.
The dime store hacks are, as
previously mentioned, obsolete---Neanderthals dead and buried in the
vast corporate tundra. Koontz and his ilk are the new model Cro
Magnons---well-packaged, reasonably inoffensive sure bets who will
twang your receptors, suck you in, spit you out and give you the sort
of carnival ride you relish every time. It's a mediocre ride, but
your stomach will churn as you plunge down the last hill and you'll
laugh and pay to get on again. Koontz and his corporate pimps will
cash your check and salute their take with a six pack of Coors (Beer
of FascistsTM).
And you'll love it. Every
second. Hell---even I read the bastard's books.
Copyright 2009 Autonomedia/ 2015
Molotov Editions
**************
The wonderful folks at CORVUS REVIEW
have just released their Fall issue, which includes my short story,
“Boil Order”. Check 'em out here:
THIS WEEK'S PLAYLIST:
- KING CRIMSON-Lark's Tongues in Aspic
- KING CRIMSON-Discipline
- THESE IMMORTAL SOULS-Marry Me Maxi-Single
- BLACK SABBATH-Master of Reality
- MINUTEMEN-Paranoid Time EP
- LEFT OF THE DIAL Box Set
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